Walk Alone
by adastrad
Summary: You've lost your wings, you've lost your speed, and in the crowd ahead, you've lost him too. How do you know what name to call out when you don't even know what to call yourself? Post-canon, wingless!Hawks/Keigo has identity issues after losing Enji in a crowd because he walks too fast. 2nd person POV. Minor depiction of panic attacks.


Titled after the song "Walk Alone" by Rudimental, which I imagine from Enji's POV

* * *

He's walking too fast for you again.

He marches ahead with strides twice the size of your own and cleaves straight through the heaving maelstrom of a crowd at a steady clip. People part for him without missing a beat. No one spares him a passing glance. Maybe it's the strength of his expectation that everyone should veer out of his way like leaves caught in the breeze that acts as such an effective repellent, unthinking confidence yielding unthinking obedience.

You wish any of that would permeate the air as far as you.

The bubble he creates to navigate seals up behind him quicker than you can trot.

You try your best to slip through the chattering crush anyway, to dart and dodge around the – not civilians... just... just everyday, ordinary people like you. It doesn't work. They come in a colorful cacophony of waves, never ending, from all directions, and you're still not used to this, being earthbound. They're close – _too_ close. You can't even get a glimpse of the interlocking brick of the sidewalk. There are too many of them bumping and knocking into you until, finally, you've had enough.

You dig in your heels and flare out your wings to steal the space you need by force.

Nothing happens.

You freeze.

You can't... You _can't_—

Someone sidles by, brushing along your empty back, and you startle, jerk away into too many hands that push you off with a derisive snort. You stumble into the path of a woman dripping elegance and sleek pastel shopping bags, all with designer logos. Her fur stands on end as she gasps. She pinwheels, swinging the bags wildly to avoid a collision. You dent them all up anyway and tear a few where the stiff paper catches on the tined edges of your bracelets. She yowls her displeasure, uncaring that the deadly bespoke corners of her purchases almost put your eye out.

You rub your cheek as her whiskers twitch, ears folded flat to her skull.

"Sorry, ma'am."

She hisses and stalks away, brown-tipped tail thrashing. You don't hear her heels click on the concrete as she steps into the street. The sound is lost amid the hubbub.

You want to take a moment to straighten yourself out, wipe sweaty palms on your jeans, tighten the plaid tied around your waist, flick the bangs out of your eyes, but you look ahead again and almost panic when you can't find him. Except, then, after a frantic scan, at last, you do. You don't know how you missed him. Even from here, he's easily taller than everyone else. His shock of red hair bobs against the deep blue of the summer sky. You long to launch yourself into it, to soar into the air and close the gap in two seconds flat.

You can do it, too. Just a shrug and a thought and—

Your mind grasps and grasps to connect with your feathers. The telekinetic link twists and writhes like a snapped wire seeking something that—

—isn't there.

The connection's failed. Again.

You swallow, stalled and empty, both sneakered feet still firmly on the ground and going nowhere as he gets farther and farther away.

It would've been so easy to catch up once.

Once, when you were the fastest hero at the top of the charts.

Once, when you had wings instead of shoulder blades scored with scars.

Once, when you were Hawks.

Hawks would have this whole street mapped out to the last breath. He'd know it intimately before he could even see it, every sigh and laugh and cry and shout, every rustling cloth, swaying bag, and chiming phone, a ceaseless stream of information, buzzing in him like a sixth sense. Hawks would never be hemmed in by this press of people. They'd surround him at a respectful distance, the film of hesitance only melting when he chose to approach or he beckoned them closer. He'd work them, grins and entertainment, like a vaudeville star. He'd always know where to look and where to turn and then with a snappy salute and a flex of feathers unfolding, he'd glide away above it all. He'd be waved off with smiles and laughter, his civilian audience secure in the knowledge he'd protect them against any threat.

No one knows you without the wings.

You're not recognizable.

They look right through you as they gossip together and whisper that old name half in gratitude, half taboo.

Unless you're gracelessly fumbling into someone, you garner no more interest than an impassive side eye. Cut away your flashiest feature and you're just some washed up, useless nobody with too much jewelry and an identification card in your pocket that says Takami Keigo. You don't know who that is. You've never made an effort to find out. It's just what everyone calls you to your face now as if you know how to answer when they do.

Everyone except the man who'd fished you out of the chaos of the end like a sun god shining life into the half-drowned and battle-broken.

He hadn't let you die. You'd dangled limp as a ragdoll from fists caught in the matted, tattered fur lining of your coat. He'd revived you with a roar, spat blood in your face, and forced you to endure.

_"Don't you_ dare _give up, you damn troublemaker!"_

Every day down to the second has been a challenge to obey that command. It's stupid, then, that just getting left behind is what makes you want to sink to your knees and bury your hands in your hair. You don't because you can't be _that_ pathetic. That's one trouble too much. He'd never forgive you. So what if your quirk's half-gone, half-mangled, and you keep forgetting? So what if you feel like an empty house, dark and abandoned? You can always invite someone over. That's manageable.

He's never asked you to rely on him, not in so many words. You have been, though. Ever since you can remember. It's a simple thing to open your mouth and shout for him to come collect you, except—

You don't know how to address him either, anymore.

As Hawks, it was easy. Even after riling him up on purpose, Endeavor listened to what he had to say. They were in the same league, playing the same game, and Hawks, in his own way, could match Endeavor like for like. They both knew the job and did it, though Hawks had always reveled receiving the respect and recognition that came with being colleagues.

'Endeavor' is too much now. He's still the number one hero, still the man you've admired all your life, but you've diminished. You're a quarter of your past self. It doesn't make sense to use that name. It's not right. More than that, he doesn't even have the uniform on. It's the weekend and he's taken the day off to spend it with you. The last thing you want is to remind him of work.

'Todoroki' would be even worse. You've never used it and it's too formal for how intimate you are. How can you call him that when it took your personal supervision this morning to prevent him from sneaking the navy and orange body suit on underneath his clothes? After everything you've shared together, it would land like a slap in the face.

The only option left, he still hasn't invited you to use. It's not as though you haven't thought about it. You can't count how many times you've mouthed the shape of 'Enji' into his skin. You'd speak it and take that name for yourself if it wouldn't open you up. It'd be tacit permission to voice your own. Considering everything you were, everything you are, who does that amount to? You haven't decided yet who you want to be. Until you figure that out, you'll just be standing here, won't you, gaping in this throng, strangled before you've uttered a single syllable.

The way ahead is made up almost entirely of strangers. He is a small speck of a person at the forefront. Any second now and the tide will wash him entirely out to sea. He'll be gone, moving forward, always forward, faster now without you.

Just as your throat closes maybe, you think, for good, you see the dot of his head lurch like he's been seized by the nape of the neck, like he's just had a shocking realization, like he's heard you call out the name you're not ready yet to say. You may have lost your speed, your feathers, almost everything about yourself you thought you knew, but your eyes are still sharp.

His too.

In a single glance, he's hit you with a laser gaze that sears through the crowd. He doesn't search for you, one among the hundreds. He finds you where he knows you're going to be.

He turns and backtracks against the pedestrian traffic. Everyone flows around him like he's an overlarge rock in a stream. Step-by-step, he closes the gap separating you quicker than he made it. You look up and up as he nears until he's right here in front of you, a hot, solid wall, cliff of a man.

He crosses his arms and frowns down at you, gruff in all his chiseled glory. He can't quite cut it for stern. Not while wearing that black collared shirt with flames dancing around the hem. You'd make fun of him for it, but it matches your shoes. Besides, he's broad enough he blocks out the sight of everything else. You're too relieved for teasing – anxious too. You're not sure if he's actually annoyed he's had to come retrieve you like some stupid, lost little kid. You should be better than that! You're not _really_ quirkless, you're definitely not helpless, you just... don't know if he'll try to scold you, and if he does... what name will he choose?

You can almost imagine it in his voice, the variations.

_Hurry up, Hawks._

_Keep up, Keigo._

Your heart's beating fast when he reaches to chuck you under the chin.

"Stop gawping," he says.

_Oh._

You hadn't realized you're still... You press your lips together.

It's not enough. His grip tightens. He tilts your face to the side, heavy thumb on your cheek.

"What's this red mark?"

"...It's nothing."

He _hmmmms_ deep and unsatisfied, but you're not about to admit to taking a bag to the face. You swat at him to leave it alone. You've reunited, thanks for the rescue, no need to keep standing here anymore. He gets the message. You know because he rolls his eyes. You brace yourself, but instead of the chastisement you expect, he grabs your hand.

He's never been a complicated guy.

He tugs you forward—

"You're with me."

—and along beside him without letting go.

He wasn't even trying, but he's bypassed all your worries and boiled everything down to the simplest parts.

To just _you_ and _me_.

As if that's all either of you needs to be.

The new pace he sets is slower if not relaxed. You think he's probably incapable of casually strolling, even when re-treading ground for the third time. He'd huff and deny it if you mentioned it. He might drop your hand. You don't want that. You can't get separated again with his thick fingers wrapped firmly around your own. It was the hyper vigilance baked into the bones of every pro hero that alerted him to the abnormality of you missing, anyway. It's what you asked him for in Yoritomi Green so many ages ago last year. To puff out his chest and proclaim the peace, to reassure the general populace that all was well. You're as much a part of that as anyone else – especially when he's got you tethered secure as a lifeline.

You should let him know, you decide.

His hand engulfs your own. His palm surrounds yours utterly. It's warm, dry, and safe as an anchor. You squeeze it in thanks, open your mouth, and match it with, "I thought you were going to abandon me back there. Do you really want to get rid of me that much?"

He snorts. "There's no point being here without you."

"Yeah?" The word escapes from you watery.

You can't help it.

Saying something like that... You know he means this street. You know he means out wandering and shopping and doing something as mundane as hanging around in a place like this. He'd never come here on his own, he'd never do this by himself. But all it does is take you right back to the moment at the end of your mission, final battle fought, that will always be _the Moment_, you believe, for as long as you both shall live. When he'd kept you alive with the sheer fury of his rage at the thought of you dead.

He surges forward. Your arm jerks in its socket, but it's not enough to tear your joined hands apart. He's merely put you one step behind which gives you a wonderful view. His ears have gone a shade that pairs fabulously with his hair. He's furious but not this time with anger. The scarlet creeps along the back of his neck, and you know he's realized what you were just thinking about, and that he's done it again. He only ever says anything so romantic by accident.

His embarrassment leaves you grinning, which is much better than sniffling, but you don't tease. Whatever he says, he never takes back.

"Stop making that face."

"What? What face? Do you have eyes in the back of your head?"

"Yes."

You laugh. The dryness of his humor – it'd been a surprise, but it never fails to delight you.

You jog a quick hop-step to set you up side-by-side again. You squeeze his hand a second time.

"Well, I was _only_ thinking about how nice your hand feels," you say, light as air. "Makes sense, I guess, since I helped you put on that moisturizer this morning."

You watch the razor edge of his nose tilt toward the sky as a brilliant burgundy threatens his cheeks. He's struggling on how to expose you as a revisionist. Help was hardly what you'd done. You'd made yourself a complete and utter distraction of the guiltiest, sweetest kind. Plus, you know how sensitive this old man is about his extensive collection of creams, lotions, and balms.

"I _told_ you—"

"Yeah, yeah, fire dries you out. Look, you think I don't get it? Do you know how much the wind _chafes_?"

It still does, though not as much with the smothering humidity of summer at its height and... not as much as when the wind was a part of you.

He stops with an exhale you think means irritation. Odd, you should know for sure. Have you got your feathers askew or—? He yanks you sideways to stand in front of him. You flounder because, _god_, your wings are gigantic, they're going to—!

They don't.

They don't buffet him or get bent out of shape. They're not even flapping in a flurry with your shock at the sudden movement.

But... But you can _feel_ them... in! In your head! Can't you?! If you _just—!_

You suck in a breath, but you're choking, you can't feel anything, there are only—

Two great weights pressing reverently to your back where wings used to rest. You're not spinning out of control anymore. You're on earth, and he's behind you, smoothing wrinkles from the thin fabric of your t-shirt. You know he knows what's just happened. You want to laugh it off with some joke about... about how much time you save now! Not having to get all your tops specially tailored! You don't open your mouth. You know if you did a prayer would tumble out instead, exulting how much you love it when he touches you like this. You'd tell him the strength in his palms repairs you. Makes you feel whole entire, warm alive. You feel you have wings again. You feel like flying.

You could spend eternity like this, but the sharp jut of his red-bearded jaw is set dead ahead. He hadn't been irritated before. He'd pulled you into place not as punishment, but to point you in a certain direction.

You blink in disbelief because this cannot be the store Endeavor— _he_ wants to go into. The façade is a gradient of magenta to midnight blue. The windows are decked out in pulsing neon circles and stars. The interior glows with a holy white light. The far wall is lined floor to ceiling with cubby holes, each one holding a sphere. Altogether, the arrangement forms a full spectrum rainbow. You squint and— god dammit, there's one that looks exactly like a little yellow chick popping out of a baby blue egg.

This is so unfair. You've technically been unemployed since your livelihood was ripped from your skin, but you want that thing. Is this him getting back at you for joking about skin care?

Well, you can do him one better. You've heard of this store. They ran an ad for it in a spring issue of _Popteen_ magazine you guest modeled for last year. Not to worry, though. It got a full three-page rave review a few months later in _Maquia_ in the same edition where they'd paid you good money to market a liquid eyeliner you'd personally never need. And, oh, _oops_, have you just said all of that out loud?

His eyebrows furrow down to the bridge of his nose. You're going to get a crick in your neck if you have to keep staring up this steep angle much longer. He's heard you, so? What is he thinking about? Maybe that Hawks posed for magazines. Keigo doesn't. And you—

"Come along, you."

He pushes around you, grabbing up your hand again. He leads you into the pristine, shining brilliance, blessedly air-conditioned. You make a beeline for the chick. You shove it at him and he takes it without question. After an extended survey that includes a thorough visual examination of your hair and extended gazing into your eyes, he selects with extreme suspicion a golden ball topped with an amethyst geode.

"Reminds me of something," is the only explanation he gives.

"Huh," you say, fluffing your swept-back bangs and fluttering your eyelashes, "I wonder what?"

Red-faced, he throws money at the cashier and storms into the street.

You thank her for the bag she offers you as you saunter back into the heat.

He's waiting for you. How charming. Too bad you're going to pester him and make him wish he'd never returned to salvage you. There's nothing you want more right now than to hear him say it.

"Who's it remind you of?"

You open the bag and he, somewhat chastened but entirely silent, drops the chick and the geode inside. His jaw is set. His scar twitches with the grinding of his teeth. You're going to have to insist he tell you again.

"Who does it—?"

"_You._"

His eyes flash lightning blue, daring you to give him hell. You hardly see it through your beaming. Your cheeks hurt, but not because you got whapped by a cat lady earlier. Your thoughts scramble and scatter, coalesce into the one thing you gotta ask though your grammar's fallin' all outta order. Ain't it something that choice of his weren't just gold?

"Reckon any of these here stores'll be sellin' a purple jacket?"

That's Keigo's Hakata accent spilling out, not Hawks'. Hawks didn't speak in dialect and he rarely wore purple. It clashed with his wings. Keigo... You don't know. And you...? You were Hawks. You are Keigo. Maybe it's about time you started putting what that means together, piece by collected piece.

This is what you know so far: Keigo is from Fukuoka and sounds like it. Keigo likes buying bath bombs with... with Enji when Endeavor has a day off. Keigo is going to drag that man up and down this street and into as many shops as it takes to find the purple jacket of his dreams. You and that fizzy geode will be indistinguishable, and with that in mind, you revise the jacket into underwear.

Your companion won't know what hit him. He's peering at you like he already knows it and is fighting with himself to accept it. For him that's business as usual. For you... you'll be sure of that when you've finished puzzling yourself together. Paving the path to your picture might be lonely with your keystone missing. You'll forget that and forget it, forever maybe, but you'll still have something big and red by your side. Not a replacement, because you know what having both felt like, but he's snug and tight and familiar.

Once you get where you're going, where the ache of invisible feathers is faint instead of a full blown panic, you can introduce him. You're starting to suspect it's someone he already knows – in his simple way. In _you_ and in _me_, together in a crowded street.

He heaves a sigh. He's accepted it, the fate you've prescribed him in a lavender-tinted journey of discovery. He sweeps out an arm in a gesture that underlines the storefronts.

"Why don't we find out?"


End file.
